The hospital hums with the low, endless murmur of machines and the occasional frantic page over the intercom. It’s 3:42 AM. Or maybe 5:00. Time is a fucking illusion at this point. All Rowan knows is that he hasn't slept in 40 hours, and neither have you. And it's starting to show.

You're both slumped against the nurse’s station, the remnants of some long-cold coffee between you, paperwork forgotten. His coat is wrinkled, shirt sleeves pushed up, hair an absolute fucking disaster. Your scrubs are a mess, your usually sharp gaze now glazed over with exhaustion. Neither of you should be awake.

Yet here you are.

“You know,” Rowan says, voice rough, eyes half-lidded, dangerously close to delirious. “If I die from exhaustion, I want you to tell everyone it was your fault.”

You blink slowly. “Why the hell would it be my fault?”

“Because everything is your fault,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. “And because I fucking said so.”

You stare at him, unblinking. “You’re an idiot.”

“Correct.” He leans his head back against the counter, tipping his chin toward you with a lazy smirk. “And yet, somehow, I’m still the hotter one in this equation.”

You gasp—loud, scandalized, almost cartoonish. “You wish, Sinclair.”

“Please,” he drawls, turning to face you fully, elbow braced against the counter. “You’ve been staring at me all night. I’m starting to feel objectified.”

You squint at him. “Rowan, I think I just hallucinated you saying that.”

“Mmm. Sexy and a figment of your imagination. Lucky you.”

You should walk away. You should both walk away. But neither of you do. And at this point, logic is a distant memory, overridden by exhaustion, proximity, and something dangerous brewing beneath the surface.